


Don't Get Me Wrong, I'm Only Dancing

by Loz



Category: British Comedy RPF
Genre: Let's Dance for Comic Relief, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 20:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10395648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: Charlie should never let his basic human compassion get in the way of self-preservation, because, if he does, cockwanky things like finding himself agreeing to do the tango with David Mitchell on live television might occur.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2010 and uploaded now for posterity and charity. Title from David Bowie.

"It's emotional blackmail," David says, and Charlie wonders why he invited him over for a drink. David's spent the entirety of the past twenty-two minutes ranting at him, and every time Charlie's opened his mouth to speak, David's silenced him with a glare and continued on his tirade. "It's not that I don't want to help, because I do, of course I do, I'm not some sort of heartless monster, but I don't want to do this, I _really_ don't, and I think that should be respected."

The 'this' that David is referring to is a performance for 'Let's Dance for Comic Relief', and David has been picked because he'd once had the stupidity to reveal to the public his total and absolute avoidance of dancing. Schadenfreude is alive and well, and, Charlie reflects, out for David's blood. He has spent too many years being the darling Stephen-Fry-Lite of panel shows; too smart, too awkwardly dignified, just confident enough in his own natural hilarity, that he must be brought down a peg or two. Jesus, people are bastards.

"They've said they'll match any pledges made by the public and double them," David explains, eyes wide. "Why would anyone expend so much time and effort to watch me this way?" 

He's genuinely confused, and it's moments like these that Charlie realises his intelligence is impressive, but not incomparable. The realisation weirdly pleases him, and Charlie thinks he should probably feel ashamed. He thought he'd got over being insecure where David's concerned --- the more their friendship develops, the more human David becomes, in good and bad ways --- and really, most of the time, Charlie only pretends to be petty. 

Catching onto the fact David has stopped speaking and expects an answer takes longer than it should. Charlie shrugs. "Why do people watch _Total Wipeout_?"

"Hang on, I know this one. To watch people _fall in the water_?" 

David's Charlie impression is terrifyingly accurate and Charlie confirms that no, no, he hasn't got over feeling insecure. There is simultaneously a frisson of 'oooh! He remembers that!' and 'fuck it, he's mocking me.' But Charlie has a point here, and he's going to make it.

"Well, yes. What you fail to point out is that humans, on the whole, are into ritualistic public humiliation. Just think of the Romans."

"I feel I need to point out here that the Romans didn't actually watch lions eat Christians."

"Maybe not, but they sure as fuck did a whole bunch of other grisly shit. Have you seen _Gladiator_? What about _Spartacus: Blood and Sand_?"

"You have a point," David accedes.

Charlie gives another shrug. "What's the big deal? Why not just close your eyes and think of England?"

He gives a mental _oooh, errrr!_ that he's fairly sure David wouldn't appreciate in his current mental state. No one could say he's an inconsiderate friend.

"I'm not like most other comedians," David says with a hint of sadness. "I never want people to laugh at me. I only ever want people to laugh with me and marvel at my intelligence and wit. I can't traverse the line between wordsmith and buffoon. I fear I am always a wordsmith."

Charlie might think David was a raving egomaniac if he didn't find him disgustingly endearing.

"Then why not _not_ do it?"

"Because then I'd look and feel like a humourless bastard, who won't even do something most people consider mind-numbingly simple to give a hope and chance to others. I have to make a choice here between continued self-respect and continued ethical responsibility, and I know which one I want to choose, but I think general society would disagree with my decision."

David wraps his arms around himself like he's trying to put up a shield, or as if it's possible he could self-implode and render his moral dilemma null and void. Charlie has the irritating urge to hug him.

"I'm like you, you know. I understand. But I think you're over-reacting."

"I _have_ watched _Screenwipe_ , Charlie. You're not afraid to make a fool of yourself in the name of a joke. I've watched you mock-wank more times than I'd care to mention, and at one point had 'where's the paper?' stuck looping in my brain for three days. It's that kind of freedom of expression I lack."

"Okay, then. What about _Peep Show_?"

"For the last fucking time, I'm not Mark Corrigan. We may share surface similarities, but when people are laughing at Mark in _Peep Show_ , they are laughing at a character, not me, David Mitchell, actual person," David storms. "And before you start, the same applies to sketches. They're always characters."

"Exactly. That's what I say to myself when people laugh at my antics during any of the shit I produce. They're not laughing at me, Charlie Brooker, man who reads the newspaper of a morning, rolls his eyes at late-night TV, and conducts unfortunate experiments with hair product, they're laughing at him, Charlie Brooker, fuckface extraordinaire who'd gain no less joy eviscerating a meerkat in front of screaming seven year olds than telling Ulrika Johnson she's a cunt sandwich, with extra cunt." 

David glares. "Do you know what word I'd really prefer you not to use right now?"

"Sandwich?" Charlie asks, hopefully. "I know it can't be cunt, because that word is oft-used in your vocabulary."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say oft-used," David counters. He points, wildly, and gets as close as he does to a sneer. "You think you know everything."

"I do know everything. Actually, no, I know absolutely nothing. But let's pretend I know everything for a while." 

Charlie gazes at David, his obvious consternation; his face is flushed and he's now taken to wringing his hands, he looks like a man who just found out he has five months to live and his girlfriend's been fucking his oncologist. Charlie wonders when he first started feeling bad on his behalf, when he became almost protective. He's always been a basically decent human being, so he isn't surprised by the empathy, but the need to do right by David, to fix this --- that's new. And unsettling. 

"Would it make it any better if I said I'll do it with you?" Charlie asks, regretting it the second he does.

"What makes you think they'd want you?" David queries, as if he feels the public should be revolted by the very idea. And yes, if he weren't so God-damned endearing, Charlie might want to punch him a few times in the smacker as opposed to narrowing his eyes until they're almost closed.

"They've been pestering me about it for weeks. That's what happens when you're Britain's hottest comedy property, who wins naff awards and borders on over-saturating the airwaves with his particularly acerbic brand of wit."

Charlie always enjoys David's anger more than he suspects mentally sound people should and he isn't disappointed by what comes next.

"Oh, you didn't feel like divulging that at the beginning, did you? It wasn't 'David, don't worry, you're not the only one.' You waited until I was good and terrified before you let _that_ little cat out of the bag. You're not gonna reveal any more truths, are you? That maybe you're an accredited samba instructor, or were once under the private tutelage of Baryshnikov? Don't worry about spoilers, I like knowing everything there is to know before certain doom!"

Charlie deftly conceals a snigger, but David's been examining him closely, because his eyes widen and he begins to flail. "And now you think it's as hilarious as everyone else does. Great. Thanks for that! _Fuckface._ "

"I'm not sure if you missed it through all the hysterical screaming and general immature cry-baby 'waaa waaa waaa no-one loves me, I think I'm a giant cock', David, but I said I'd dance with you."

Something in David seems to crumple, and he mirrors that with his body. He slumps into the nearest chair and bends his head down low, his hands close to resting on his toes. He spends two minutes like this, and Charlie lets him, can tell he's thinking and wouldn't be surprised if the awkward position is some sort of self-flagellation. 

"Would you really do that?" David finally asks in a small voice.

_No!_ Charlie thinks. _No, are you mad? This isn't puppet-fucking, for Christ's sakes. It's dancing, on National TV. My reputation would be completely shot and then everyone would know I can be bought for the price of a pout._

But that isn't what he says.

"Yes," he says, matching David's small voice, "I will." 

_And that, Ladies and Gentlemen_ , Charlie thinks. _Is how Charlton Brooker fucked up his previously uncomplicated life._

*

"You have no idea how glad I am that you want to do this," Barbara says and Charlie looks on with a twinge of horror as he realises David looks like he's going to say _'I don't want to do this, you're forcing me, and I hate you for it.'_

David, thankfully, keeps silent. 

"We thought you and Robert could dance together, but since Robert declined, I suppose that can't happen."

"He sprained his ankle," David explains, and Charlie can practically hear the ' _bastard_ ' that comes after the statement. 

"Is it at all possible _you'd_ like to dance with David?" Nikki tentatively suggests. Charlie wonders what it is about him that inspires this approach in strangers. He's not complaining, far from it, he's simply curious. "You could call yourselves The Grumpy Young Men," she continues.

_Now_ he's complaining. Charlie nods morosely --- in for a fucking penny, in for a fucking pound.

"The tango," Barbara says, "is a big drawcard. Especially if it involves some gender bending."

"I'm not dressing up as a woman," David cuts in, frantically. "I'll shuffle about if I have to, but it's a gigantic no to taffeta and illusion netting. I just want that on the record. No dresses." 

Nikki briefly glances at Charlie, successfully assesses his expression, and goes on to explain the schedule. 

_A week_ , Charlie thinks. _A week with David in your arms. You shouldn't find this as thrilling as you do, you sick shithead. What do you think's going to happen? The bastard cousin of Stockholm Syndrome? Carpe fucking diem? Dream on._

Nikki and Barbara have stopped talking and are looking at him expectantly. He really has to stop the internal monologue, he realises, then realises he's still doing it. 

"Sorry, I must have zoned out for a moment," Charlie admits. He catches a slight movement bloom in his peripheral vision and glances quickly to see David gazing at him worriedly. He can hear an unspoken _"What are you like?"_ and he has to wonder when they became telepathically linked, hoping desperately it's not a two-way connection.

"Rehearsal starts at eight a.m," Nikki presumably repeats. 

This is fan-fucking-tastic so far as Charlie's concerned. Now he's got hour upon hour of dread-filled anticipation, what more could a man want? David looks similarly heartened and they hobble out of the office together.

"Alcohol," David says numbly. It could be an order, it might be a plea. It sounds like a necessity.

"I couldn't agree more," Charlie replies.

*

Eight in the morning is a time constructed by some form of human-hating non-specific deity. It's simultaneously too late for copious yawning and complaints of 'it's the crack of dawn!' to be appropriate, and too early for any inclination against these. It didn't really take a giant leap of imagination to write from the perspective of a horde of zombies, Charlie muses, he just had to remember how he feels at eight in the morning. The camera crew look like they've been awake since five, as if this is the middle of the fucking day for them, and he can't decide if he's envious or pitying, because he's too busy wishing a hole in the ground would open up and swallow them whole. It's bad enough to be doing this in the first place, let alone having people there, watching, occasionally interrupting to construct a close-up, or rerecord an amusing reaction. He's worked in the industry for long enough to know there's a difference between verisimilitude and truth, but it's still jarring to be asked to mug in three different ways when he's 'told for the first time' he and David are expected to dance together. It's a borrowed addition to the format that Charlie really wishes they'd left well alone.

David's drinking coffee, which he doesn't often do, and the smell makes Charlie's stomach lurch with want. It's probably shit, since David apparently can't tell the difference between a decent cup and a bag of cat-crap, but it would still make him feel slightly better, in the way only rubbish beverages can. David's using his paper coffee-cup as a mask, taking a carefully measured sip whenever the choreographer and dance-coach Simon looks his way. It's a clever technique that Charlie may well add to his repertoire. He can only tell David's swearing under his breath because he's at an advantageous angle and a little too focussed on his lips as they brush against the rim. Bad thoughts enter his mind thanks to word association, and Charlie coughs a few times, returning to the world bleary-eyed and red-faced; not for the same reason. 

They watch a professional couple demonstrate the basics and Charlie's inadequacy rises from the depths. They look at some video performances with added flair and Charlie's inadequacy stars in its own reality TV show. They get manhandled onto the floor and Charlie's inadequacy sells its ghost-written (auto)biography.

"You have to pay careful attention to the frame," Simon says, and Charlie almost giggles again, because his mind is addled, he may be going mad, and they're all engaged in a sadistic children's game. But this isn't pass the parcel, and he's pretty positive not everyone gets a prize.

Charlie is going to be the lead, it's decided. His right hand is forcefully placed into position on David's left shoulder-blade, his left in David's right hand, he's told to straighten his back, look to the side, and Charlie's initially too worried about getting the position right to think much about the intimacy of their pose.

He can't not listen intently to instructions as he's told, "slow… slow… quick-quick-slow…"

A perverse part of him wants to get this right. To show the pissants of the world he's more than a one-trick pony, but co-ordination isn't always his strong suit. After an hour of practicing the basic steps, Charlie still feels like he's awkwardly fumbling with all the lights turned off, eyes treacherously casting gazes at his feet, even when Simon wraps him on the knuckles by David's neck. David is equally as unsteady on his feet as they go through the routine, and when Charlie's able to look at his face, his eyes are too bright, his lips parted and glistening, and there's a bead of sweat on his brow.

"I have to help the other contestants," Simon says, "why don't you two keep practicing and I'll be back at six to give you a taste-test of what we'll be learning tomorrow?"

"There's more?" David asks, then checks himself, _then_ double takes. "Hang on, did you say six?"

"You won't be ready in time if you don't put in the hours," Simon says, calmly. He's upsettingly forthright and logical about it, like a new incarnation of a sci-fi character trope fanboys relate to because no one ever told them there's no such thing as unique, and if there were, it sure as shit wouldn't be them. Charlie hates him in that moment, even as he recognises he's only doing his job. Just like the camera crew that looms and makes escape impossible.

By the end of the day, Charlie knows two things. He's just as horrible as he'd always suspected he'd be at moving on a dance floor. And David's the same. They are the text-book definition of ghastly, a mockery of movement. There is no way in hell they're going to pull this off, and with any luck, they'll get booed off the stage before they've even started. But Charlie's been around John Sergeant long enough to know that this is wishful thinking. They'll be the nation's darlings. The nation's physically hindered, emotionally stunted darlings. 

Fuck.

David doesn't speak to him after they're shown the _corte_ and told to expect this in their all-too-soon future. He leaves the dance studio without a backwards glance and Charlie tries really hard not to feel like he's been punched in the heart. It's trauma, he reminds himself. They've been forced to spend the entire day in each other's company, doing something they both hate. It has nothing to do with David disliking _him_. But whilst the rational side of him reasons convincingly, the rather more experienced and world-weary side tells him David's forever going to associate him with humiliation and malice. And yes, the idea of this makes him _ache_. 

*

Halfway through the second rehearsal, Charlie accidentally stands on David's foot. Thankfully the camera crew has gone to lunch, so it isn't recorded for time immemorial.

"Why are you doing this?" David asks suddenly, the loudness of his voice a shock to Charlie's system. He's become so used to the near-silence, the muttered 'slow, slow, quick-quick-slow', he's forgotten there's such a thing as conversation.

"I'm a clumsy arse?"

"No, I mean this," David flails. "Partaking in this torture with me."

Charlie slides his eyes to the side away from David's face, focussing on the opposite wall. But the opposite wall is a mirror, so he gets to enjoy his miserably grumpy expression, the smallest hint of a blush over his cheeks. His self-loathing grows to all new heights. All he can think about is the heat of David beneath his fingers, the smell of soap and deodorant intermingled with another scent that's pleasantly musky. All he wants to do is drag a hand through the too-neat hair and brush his cheek against unshaved stubble, and give and give and give.

"Because I'm nice?"

"No, you're not," David says, then fumbles and stammers. "That's not what I meant. You are, of course you are."

"No need to lie, Mitchell. There's every chance I'll stomp on you with my cloven hooves again before the day is through."

"All I meant, was, well... Charlie?" David appeals. "We haven't been close friends for all that long. In fact, I wasn't even sure we were this close. So, er... "

"I want your babies," Charlie cuts in with a roll of his eyes and sarcasm so thick it could star in _Snog, Marry, Avoid_. He wants to be able to come up with a plausible excuse, but his brain has stopped working.

"You and half of mumsnet," David returns, obviously relieved he's back safely in the realm of controlled self-deprecation.

"I have a weirdly over-developed sense of social justice," Charlie states, and he figures that's good enough, because it is actually true. The other truth, so skilfully hidden he may as well have been on a radio panel show, doesn't need to be repeated.

*

The third, fourth and fifth days continue much as the others before them, except that David relaxes enough to occasionally smile and talk to him and Charlie begins to believe this is actually real life and not a rennet-free-cheese-induced nightmare. There will be some sweet moments in the clip package, carefully edited to reveal a narrative of initial social nervousness that blossoms into friendship. It will begin with awkward silences and end with them laughing joyfully at one another whilst likening the Variety Show Regime to the SS.

They even improve, although they're still Shit Shittington and his Shit. Charlie's memorised the routine now, very rarely getting the steps wrong, and David's never graceful, but he doesn't fall over any more. They know what they're doing, and even though they do it far from well, at least they won't unwittingly start grooving to the pasodoble.

"You're sure you won't consider make-up?" Nikki asks as they look through their garish costume choices. 

"Which one of us are you talking to?" Charlie has the presence of mind to ask, because he suspects he knows the reaction --- immediate silence and shrivelling into a corner. 

"It has to be the follow, of course," Nikki says, surprising him with a bravery he had heretofore discounted. 

"Regular non-glare make-up yes," David says authoritatively, "blood red or salmon pink lipstick no. When you asked me to do this, you had to have known there would be limitations. I will not abide lurid eye-shadow and mascara, I'm sorry, but I cannot do it."

Nikki gives David a very precise glare, likely imagining she could laser-beam him in two. She spins on her heel and leaves the room, and Charlie has a momentary memory flash of _T-Bag_ that has him shaking his head.

"The make-up might have made you feel more like a character," Charlie can't help but point out. 

David shoves forward a purple-sequined jacket in his size, features composed into fierce resolution.

Revenge, Charlie suspects, is a dish best served with sparkles.

*

The one thing Charlie has skilfully avoided thinking about rears its ugly head on the sixth day in this circle of hell. The word beckons, a parody of the reaper, as the lights are set up around the stage for the first stage rehearsal. 

Live.

He'd been concentrating so hard on learning how to move the way he was meant to, and avoiding collapsing into a ball of goo, to give it much consideration. But now it's a frightening inevitability as opposed to a potential future hazard, and fuck, he may have been through worse in his lifetime, but he's hard pressed to remember any instances. There's no margin for error. There's no muttered obscenity, chuckle, and reshoot. What happens on Dance Night lives forever, a _Highlander_ hybrid of fuck-uppery and public vilification.

And suddenly, the prospect of his reputation being shot because he may be a bad dancer pales in comparison to all of the other things he can imagine happening. A fire may erupt due to an incompetent technician, and set his head alight. Or maybe at the last moment David will have the wherewithal to back out and for a bizarre and unsettling reason the only other person who will know the routine is Anne Robinson. Perhaps, just perhaps, the alien overloads will finally beam down and claim them all. 

He twitches. He can feel himself twitching. His palms are clammy, his chest is tight. This is singularly the most terrifying experience of his entire life and it isn't even time, yet, this isn't even _it_. 

He stumbles and trips three beats into the dance rehearsal, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. He can't do this! The world's about to end! His brain has turned to mush and his feet have turned to sludge. 

"You're not bottling out on me, are you?" David whispers urgently, grip around his hand tightening.

"Ugh," Charlie replies coherently. 

_Jesus fuck, pull it together, man, there are people, out there, doing things, like watching you right this second._

"I think Charlie needs a breather," David calls out, signalling against his neck in a way that suggests public hanging more than light nervous asphyxiation. Charlie doesn't quite know how to express his gratitude at this, especially when Barbara agrees and he realises he's being trundled off the stage.

David sits him down with a cup of tea and an expression of mixed sympathy and conviviality, which confuses Charlie, but also comforts him. 

"Still get stage fright, then," he says conversationally and Charlie does something, he's not sure what, to confirm this is indeed true. David takes a deep, noticeable breath, and Charlie knows in that moment that he has to do this for him, otherwise he is the very worst kind of person, and David doesn't deserve that.

"I think I'm ready," he says after a shaky three minutes. They stand and position themselves at their crosses. 

Charlie blanks his mind, goes through the whole routine without flaking out once, slow, slow, quick-quick-slow, thinks --- when he allows himself to think --- it was bearable. When it's finally over David gives him a small, strange smile that makes him feel disconcertingly proud, and Charlie spends the rest of the day walking around in a dream-state.

*

The unremitting terror returns on Dance Night. His festoon of purple sequins and David's of gold do precisely nothing to assuage his fears. He can't bring himself to watch the other acts, refuses to listen to the baying crowd. Oh, how he longs for Cthulhu now, ravaging the masses so he doesn't have to follow through with his noble self-sacrifice.

This is impossible. He's going to crap himself on live television. His eyes will fall out of their sockets, followed by his limbs. The arseholes in the stands will jeer and chant, simultaneously disgusted and delighted.

He stands with David, in position behind the screen, reminding himself to think about the frame, the frame is key, but he finds himself looking at David's face instead, staring into the eyes that his crazed mind suggests are like black holes, slowly sucking him in. He changes focus to spit-moistened lips, sinfully begging to be touched. 

"We could always run away," David says, voice hushed. "I'm sure they wouldn't find us in Milton Keynes."

And that does it, it totally wrecks him. Before he can process what he's doing he's kissing David deeply, drawing him in close. He's licking the roof of his mouth, gliding his tongue over his teeth, pressing his body tighter, impatient for more contact. David isn't pushing away from him, screaming into the night. He kisses back, surprisingly fiercely, arching into him, nestling his thigh between Charlie's.

Something within Charlie takes control and he begins the slow, slow, quick-quick-slow of the tango. The frame is all wrong, he shouldn't be watching myriad expressions flit across David's face, he's meant to be looking the other way, but his eyes betray him like every other part of his body, and he continues to stare, even through a particularly ambitious and unplanned _turning corte_. 

It's only when the music stops that Charlie realises his chest is heaving. Only when he's tapped on the arm by the charmingly panda-like Claudia Winkleman that he figures out there are other people in the world, and millions of them just witnessed him sucking face with David Mitchell on 'Live National Television'. It's only when he looks into the crowd, sees them standing and applauding, a whoop of indistinguishable glee dispersed in different corners, that the true gravity of the situation hits home.

"Fuck the lot of you," he returns, and goes to drag David into another kiss, only to find David two seconds ahead of him, pressing tight. _Score one for the bastard cousin of Stockholm Syndrome_ , Charlie rejoices, smiling against David's lips.

*

Half an hour later the euphoria has died down, to be replaced by blind panic. He's watched the performance and can instantaneously tell it's going to go viral. This is only increased by Nikki's beatific grin and promise they'll most definitely win the round, if not the whole event. Charlie can't tell if she thinks it was all a stunt, if everyone does, but concludes it doesn't matter in the long run. The sole reason he hasn't stolen one of the many microphone cords and garrotted himself is sipping a bottle of water and occasionally shooting him endearingly pleased glances that make his insides go wibbly wobbly. 

"I'd hoped," David says, obscurely, relying on Charlie to know what he's referring to. "I really hoped, more than I ever have before, and, you know, I've wished for a lot of things in my life. But this was --- a longing."

The earnestness of the statement flips him over, turns him inside out, and makes him feel every other fucking romantic cliché in Christendom. He wants to shout on the rooftops, scream he's the king of the world, talk about completion and having someone at hello. He never, ever wants to quit David, ever. 

And Charlie thinks _that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is how Charlton Brooker fucked up his previously uncomplicated life in the best way possible._


End file.
